Firsts
by rahleeyah
Summary: A birthday gift for andallthatmishigas. What might have happened if Rose hadn't caught Jean in the corridor.


She couldn't stop thinking about that bloody kiss. One passionate, all too short embrace in the kitchen and she was suddenly eighteen again, overwhelmed with want and untoward thoughts, unable to calm the racing of her pulse, reckless and wild and willing to do whatever it took to wrap her hands around the fondest desire of her heart. Uncertainty had stayed her hand, had forced her to push him away, to offer some flimsy excuse in a desperate bid to protect herself, to stop them both from crossing that damnable line. Though she loved him, though she knew he cared for her, though he'd asked her to marry him and they had come so very far together, it had been seventeen long years since last she'd gone to bed with a man, and much as she might want him, much as the touch of his lips had lit a fire in her belly that only he could quench she could not stop the doubts that plagued her. Would he be pleased with her, when he finally had her naked in his bed? When the illicit thrill of dancing so close to impropriety had been replaced by the bonds of matrimony?

Jean sat on the little bench in front of her dresser and gazed at herself, somehow gripped by both hope and dread in equal measure. Her pajamas covered her from ankle to collarbone, and as she looked at herself now, her face fresh and clean and free from makeup, her hair soft and falling loosely out of its rigid set, she felt a spark of...something, deep inside her heart. _I'm pretty enough, still,_ she thought as she studied her own face, the shine of her eyes, the curve of her lip. Hard work had kept her figure slim, even after the birth of her children, and though her face was lined, now, worn with care and the passage of the years she was self-aware enough to acknowledge that those lines had not dimmed the beauty of her features, had only helped her grow from a skinny little girl into a woman strong enough to stand beside Lucien Blake. The church counseled against vanity and Jean tried to take those lessons to heart, tried not to be prideful of her own appearance, though she always dressed with care, though she never left her bedroom without her makeup done and her hair styled just so. Now, though, sitting before the mirror, overcome with the memories of Lucien's hands upon her body, the way he pressed himself against her, drew her closer, devoured her hungrily, a little voice whispered to her in the stillness. _He wants you,_ that sinful voice told her. _Just as you are, he wants you._

But would he want her like this? She asked herself. Wrapped in layers of pink satin and silk, her figure obscured by these frumpy clothes? If he saw her like this, devoid of artifice and any material support, would he feel the same? _He kissed you in the kitchen, while you were wearing your robe. That's hardly the most enticing outfit you own._

Idly her fingertips stroked the lace that covered her chest, stumbled across the little buttons at the base of her neck. Would he take pleasure in peeling these pajamas from her body, revealing her at last to his hungry gaze?

Jean had put more thought than she cared to admit into planning for their wedding night, a night she could hardly imagine ever happening while they remained locked in stasis, waiting to hear back from Mei Lin, waiting to learn when his divorce would be finalized. She had imagined a small reception after the ceremony, dancing and champagne, had imagined his arm snaking around her waist, imagined him leading her to the car, imagined his fingers tracing over the curve of her shoulder, imagined coming back to this house, this home they shared, and then, then she had imagined what she would wear.

Not two days after Mei Lin left, after Lucien slipped that ring on her finger and promised to give her all of himself, everything he was, everything he had, unreservedly, Jean had marched into the nicest shop in town with her chin held high and purchased a new nightdress, unlike anything else she owned. Her cheeks had flamed as she handed her money to the girl behind the counter, watching as her prize was carefully folded and placed in a box, nestled amongst tissue paper for safekeeping. The gown was chiffon, pale pink and almost translucent, edged with lace around a neckline that was significantly more daring than the top she wore now. It would leave her arms bare, would whisper around the curve of her calf, and just the thought of it set her heart to racing. There would be no hiding from him, if she wore such a garment.

Before she realized what she'd done Jean had reached into her dresser and retrieved the box, carefully pulling out the gown to stare in wonder at it once again. This was what she would wear, the first time Lucien took her to bed, the first time he saw her skin bare and begging for his touch. This was what would she wear, the first time she gave herself to him.

 _But when?_ That little voice asked in the back of her mind. How long would she have to wait, hungry for him, aching from the touch of his hand, knowing they could be so much more and yet holding herself back for the sake of their reputations? The thought of those endless months of waiting, of her desire and her beautiful new nightdress languishing unused and unfulfilled was unbearably frustrating. It was silly, really, that she be forced to keep her distance when they were both adults, neither of them blushing virgins, when they already lived in the same house, when there was nothing the local gossips could say about them that had not been said already, many times over. What was the point, she asked herself, of enduring all the whispers and thinly-veiled insults if in the end she could not even fold herself into his arms, seek comfort in his embrace? They had already suffered through the most grievous trial imaginable, and Lucien's commitment to her had never faltered.

Still, though, she hesitated. Lucien was married, in the eyes of the church and the state. To go to bed with him now, to slip down the stairs and into his room with salacious intent, would be to willfully commit an act of adultery. Before she'd met him, Jean would never have dreamed that she would even entertain the thought of doing such a thing; yes, she had gone to bed with Christopher before they married - well, technically, they had tumbled together in the hayloft of his parents' barn - but he remained the only man she had ever touched. Her commitment to him had never wavered, even if they had not done things in the proper order. Throughout their marriage her eyes had never wandered to another man, and after his death she had stayed true to his memory, and rebuffed the advances of all sort of men, married and single alike. Now, though, she burned with want for a man who belonged to another.

 _He doesn't though,_ her selfish heart whispered. Lucien had believed his wife to be dead and had chosen Jean, had dug out his mother's ring and prepared himself to present it to her, before Mei Lin arrived on their doorstep. And though his wife had returned to him, though Jean could not fault him for loving this woman who had borne his child, who had he had spent so many long years searching so desperately for, it was not Mei Lin he reached for. It was not Mei Lin whose hands he held, was not Mei Lin whose cheek he kissed, and in the end it was not Mei Lin he chose. Mercifully, it seemed that his wife agreed with his decision; Jean would not have been able to live with herself, if Mei Lin had wanted to cling to her marriage with Lucien. But the current Mrs. Blake seemed all too ready to hand her husband off to another, and Jean was all too ready to accept him.

Sin is sin, the church had taught her; there were no degrees of adultery, and it did not matter to the church if Lucien's wife wanted to be shot of him, if Mei Lin had given them both her blessing. He was married, and for Jean to hold him now would be a grievous sin.

Still, though, she burned for him.

 _They'll say it's adultery, even after the divorce. The church will not allow you to have him, now or later. What difference does it make?_

Though Jean had not mentioned it to Lucien, though she had not yet spoken to Father Emery about it, the truth was she knew all too well the church's stance on divorce. Lucien's wife was still living, and as long as she was, no matter what official paperwork they obtained, no matter the promises they made to one another, the church would see any relationship between Jean and Lucien as improper. There was no way for her to marry Lucien, to hold him as she longed to, and remain in good standing with the church. She had known it when he asked her the second time, had known it when she caught his face in her hands and kissed him with everything she had, and yet still she had agreed, for she wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life, for she knew that the love between them was real and strong and true. Without a fixed wedding date in mind she had allowed herself to overlook this massive stumbling block, to focus instead on helping him obtain his divorce and comforting him throughout the proceedings, but in the darkness of her bedroom with the soft lace and chiffon of the nightdress she intended to wear on their wedding night beneath her fingertips, she could not run from it.

 _Damned if you do, and damned if you don't,_ she thought.

For a long moment she hesitated, warring with herself. He wanted her, she knew, had felt it in the fire of his kiss. And she wanted him, had nearly cried out in disappointment when she'd been forced to push him away, longing to hold him and yet trying so hard to do the right thing. She did not want to wait another moment longer, and knowing that the church's judgement of them was inevitable, knowing that their reputations could hardly be ruined any further, helped to make up her mind.

With a sudden burst of confidence she rose from the bench and stripped out of her pajamas at once, sliding the soft fabric of her nightdress over her head. As the fabric whispered around her hips she took stock of herself in the mirror, the curl of her hair, the darkness of her nipples hinted at beneath the nearly transparent gown. Jean settled herself back upon the bench, her heart racing, her breathing shallow as she carefully began to apply her make up, a bit of shadow over her eyes, the reddest lipstick she owned to outline the curve of her mouth. _Will he be pleased?_ She asked herself as she worked, as the self-conscious expression faded from her face. Her courage was growing with each passing moment. Dressed this way, with all her best features highlighted just so, she thought she looked rather alluring. If he wanted to kiss her when she stood in the kitchen wrapped her soft robe, she could only imagine what he would want when he saw her like this.

 _Now or never,_ she told herself, rising from the bench at once. She took a deep, steadying breath, her hand upon the doorknob. Was she really considering this? Was she really about to walk downstairs and into Lucien's room wearing this nightgown, every curve of her body on display for him for him to accept or reject as he chose? The memory of his kiss had her opening the door in an instant; he would not reject her now, she knew. He wanted this, as much as did she, and it was high time they both got what they wanted.

Mercifully the house was still and quiet; though Charlie and Rose had tried to be discreet Jean knew that young Miss Anderson had not left after dinner, and so she made her way down the corridor to the stairs as silently as she could, not wanting to disturb the young lovers. For some reason the thought of Charlie and Rose together made her smile; though it was wrong, for Rose to spend the night when they were not wed - were not even contemplating it, as far as Jean was aware - it was nice to think that they weren't alone, that they were keeping one another company, that they were brave enough to take what they wanted with no regard for what other people might say. Given what Jean was about to do she knew she was hardly in a position to judge them, and so she only wished them well.

She was down the stairs and standing outside Lucien's door quite before she realized it. Though it was late enough for everyone in the house to seek out their beds it was not so late for him to be sleeping deeply; they had only parted company less than an hour before, exchanging a gentle kiss at the foot of the stairs before Jean slipped away from him. Lucien often had trouble sleeping, and though it was unkind Jean hoped that this might be one of those nights when he did not fall easily into dreams. She did not want to have to wake him, to have to state her intentions outright.

Standing there with her hand upon the knob she drew in another deep breath. Once she opened this door there would be no turning back. She would not be able to deny what she had done, what it was she wanted, and she would be forced to face her own longings head on. Whatever happened next, the state of affairs between them would change forever. She could only hope it would be for the better.

Before she could rethink her plan Jean turned the knob, and slipped into his room.

* * *

Lucien was sitting upright in his bed, reading by the feeble light of a lamp. The rest of the house had long since gone to sleep but on this night his mind was rather uncooperative. Intrusive thoughts assailed him at every turn; the memory of Jean's body soft and warm beneath his hands, the taste of her kiss, the knowledge that much as he might want her he could not have her, not now and not for many months to come. The case at hand plagued him as well, but he could not focus on the details of the murder when all he saw every time he closed his eyes was Jean. Having her here, in his house, was a blessing and a curse; he loved knowing that she was close by, loved being able to speak to her whenever he wished, sharing their meals and sitting together in the evenings, the trail of his hand against her hip, the soft press of her lips to his cheek when he left in the morning. Likewise he hated having to say good night to her, having to watch her walking away from him, having to fall asleep without her by his side. It was a delicious, unbearable sort of torture, and he wasn't sure how much more he could take. He was trying, with all his might, to respect her wishes, to step back when she asked him to, to not give in to his desire to chase her up the stairs and tumble into her bed. Lucien loved that woman, with all his heart, and he would never presume to ask more from her than she was willing to give, no matter how he longed for her.

And so it was that when his bedroom door opened and the subject of his agonized musings slipped into his room he had to give his head a little shake, rub at his eyes for a moment to make sure that he wasn't actually dreaming.

Jean stood with her back against the door, watching him with those fierce grey eyes he loved so well, her chest rising and falling with each of her shallow breaths. She was a vision of loveliness, an angel come to life to stand before him. How had he never seen the smooth skin of her shoulders before? How had he never known before this moment that her chest was dotted with freckles? His heart was pounding so loudly he could hardly think. The nightdress she wore was soft, floating around her hips, hinting at miles of pale, soft skin he had so far only dreamed about. The gentle tumble of the curls that framed her face called out to him, and he longed to bury his hands there, to clutch her close to him, to devour her whole. She had never looked more delicate, more enticing, than she did in this moment, and he could hardly breathe for wanting her.

"Jean," he croaked, his mouth suddenly dry, hardly capable of speech. In the gloom between them he saw her cheeks redden, watched her fidget with her hands, delicious and uncertain all at once. With each passing second the details of her appearance came further into focus; the ruby red of her lipstick, the delicate curve of her ankle, the swell of her breasts, loose and soft beneath the gauzy fabric. And as he drank in the sight of her, the significance of her arrival in his bedroom at this late hour struck him quite suddenly. She had done this on purpose, he thought as he stared at her, had made herself up and slipped down the stairs in that beautiful nightdress for a purpose, a purpose that had him rising to his feet in an instant.

As he approached she remained rooted to the spot, and for perhaps the very first time he could recall she seemed utterly incapable of speech. There was a desperation in her eyes, a yearning he knew all too well, for he felt it himself. It had cost her greatly to come to him like this, he knew. Jean was a good woman, a strong woman, and she did not lightly give into her desires. That she had chosen to do this, that she had chosen to share herself with him, to set aside the rigid rules that had restricted her life thus far for the sake of the love she bore him, seemed to him to be a most precious gift. He wasn't entirely sure he deserved it, but he was resolved to do whatever it took to ensure that she would not regret it in the morning.

Ever so slowly he crossed the chasm between them, came to stand before her, longing to reach out to her and yet holding himself back for the moment. He was dressed for bed in a set of dark navy pajamas, and it did not occur to him that he had rinsed the Brylcreem from his hair until she smiled at him and reached out with one trembling hand to run her fingers through his unruly blonde curls.

At the touch of her hand he sighed, softly, felt the tension ease out of his body even as she stepped up closer to him. His hands rose at once to cradle her hips, catching the soft fabric of her gown in his fingertips, feeling the heat of her skin beneath it and shivering at the sensation.

"How did I not know you had such messy hair?" she asked him softly, and he smiled at her in the darkness, pulled her closer still until their bodies were flush together. Her fingers remained tangled in his hair, but without the aid of her usual suede pumps she stood a full head shorter than he, forced to tilt her head back so that she could stare into his eyes. The weight of the moment settled upon him, heavy and soft as a blanket. He held everything he had ever wanted in his hands, and he desperately wanted to get this right, to do whatever it took to make her happy.

"Jean," he said, his voice hardly more than a whisper, trying to find the words to ask her if she was sure, if this was really what she wanted, but she beat him to the punch, his clever Jean.

"I'm tired of waiting, Lucien," she answered with a determined lift of her chin. "I'm yours, now and always, whatever happens next."

For a single instant he stared at her in wonder; how could it be that every time he thought he had the measure of her she surprised him like this, proved to him that she was more than he ever expected, stronger than anyone ever gave her credit for? She was the bravest woman he had ever known, and the loveliest, and if she was ready to join her life to his, then he would not stop her.

"As I am yours, my darling," he answered her even as he bowed his head, capturing her lips with his own the moment the words left him.

Jean surged up towards him, lifted herself onto her toes and used the hand still tangled in his hair to pull him close to her. They fit together so well like this, hands and noses knowing instinctively where to go, but he could not spare a thought for how wonderful it was with the taste of her burning through him, the slide of her tongue against his own, hungry and certain. Jean wanted this, wanted _him,_ and he could not stop now, not for anything.

Ever so slowly he allowed his hands to move, to trace the shape of her over her nightgown. As his fingertips trailed fire down the curve of her spine from her shoulders to the rise of her bum Jean sighed and melted against him, not pushing him away this time, not calling an end to their tryst, but encouraging him on with every subtle movement of her body. Before this moment every kiss, every touch that they had shared had been brief, fleeting, brought to an end all too quickly by her belatedly-remembered morals, but not tonight. And so Lucien determined to take everything that she offered and return it to her a hundredfold, to wring every last ounce of pleasure he could from every moment they were together, to make sure that when he was finished Jean was more satisfied than she had ever been in her entire life. Ever so slowly he pressed against her, slid one strong thigh between her legs, urged her back until she was once more flush against the door. His hands returned to her hips, guiding her gently as he ground his thigh forward against her, seeking to cause the sort of friction that would have her trembling in his arms. It worked better than he could have anticipated; she continued to kiss him messily, her nails scratching lightly against his scalp, down the back of his neck and back up again, but he could feel her breathing quicken, could feel the press of her breasts against his chest. Already he was growing hard where he bore down against her belly, and he knew by the sudden intake of her breath, the soft gasp that passed her lips to wash over his own, the moment she realized it. If ever she were to turn away from him it would be now, and yet she did no such thing, only redoubled her efforts, stroking the line of his beard with her thumb and shifting closer to him still.

Emboldened by her positive response he allowed his hands to wander, to flow like water from her hips along the curve of her sides, feathering along the swell of her breasts with his thumbs as he went. In a desperate bid to regain his breath he tore his lips from hers, reveled in the soft sound of want that left her when he turned his attentions to the smooth column of her neck instead, his body curving around her, the movement of their hips growing ever more insistent. She was panting, softly, quietly, and the sound of it, the knowledge that she was so affected by his touch, moved him more deeply than he could express. The neckline of her gown left more of her chest exposed to him than he had ever seen before, but there was too much distance between them. All unthinking he reached down and caught her bum in his hands, lifted her easily, delighted in the little gasp that escaped her, the way her legs lifted at once to lock around his waist. With his chest he pressed her back against the door, held her in place while he rucked up her nightdress until he could feel the warmth of her thighs beneath his palms. He dragged his hands along the smoothness of her skin, drunk on the feel of her, utterly undone by the knowledge that this was _Jean_ whose body he cradled so close, that it was _Jean_ who had come to him so boldly, with neither stockings nor foundation garments to hide the truth of her body from him. Once more his hands curved around her bum, supporting her, holding her close as she arched against him, as his lips fell from her neck to her chest, at a much more convenient height now that he held her aloft.

"Lucien," she sighed his name, her hands moving now, following the line of his shoulders, pressing against his muscles, learning the shape of him even as he acquainted himself with every freckle that dotted her skin.

"I love you, Jean," he answered her, flicking his tongue against her collarbone and delighting in the shiver that passed through her body at the sensation.

Though he could very easily have remained right where he was, could have reached between them and freed his hardness from his sleeping pants and torn the knickers from her body and taken her hard and fast there against the door, he had made a promise to himself. Jean was risking everything, to come to him like this, and it would be unkind to reward her bravery with a few quick thrusts and a lackluster ending for her. She deserved the world, and he was resolved to give it to her, and so with his arms cradling her close he turned away, crossed the short distance to his bed. Jean clung to him, and the trust she showed him left him in awe of her. Carefully he bent, shifted them both until she was lying across his sheets, smiling up at him softly. With one delicate hand she reached for him, trailed the pad of her thumb along the curve of his bottom lip, and in response he kissed her once, gently, overcome with the beauty of her, the pleasure of this moment.

He knelt before her, reverent as a pilgrim before a holy altar, and ghosted his palms along the length of her calves, catching the hem of her nightdress, slowly drawing it up and up, breathless at the sight of her long legs revealed to him at last. Over the course of their tumultuous relationship he had admired those legs more times than he cared to admit, had watched them flexing and curving as she turned even the most mundane of domestic tasks into an erotic dance that left him desperate for her, but this remained the very first time he had ever seen her legs bare, and the sight of them was almost more than he could stand. These legs, strong and smooth, carried her through her life, had borne her through hard work and heartbreak and joy and down the stairs to his bed this night, and he was so grateful that had he not abandoned all pretense of religious belief decades earlier he might well have sent up a prayer of thanksgiving.

As the progress of his hands drew ever closer to her hips he hesitated, wondering if perhaps he was moving too quickly, if it was unfair of him to strip her down all at once when he remained fully clothed, but Jean saw the doubt in his eyes and reached out to reassure him at once, wrapping her hands around his wrists and encouraging his progress. His palms rose still higher at her insistence, over the soft curve of her belly, revealing white satin knickers and a scar on the side of her abdomen, and he made a mental note to return to that scar at the first possible opportunity, to lavish it with kisses and banish all memory of pain from her body. He could not stop now, however, so close to his goal, and so he leaned forward, pressing on until there was nothing for it but to lift the nightdress from her shoulders. Beneath him Jean shifted, helping him to pull it free until he was tossing it away and she was settling back down amongst his pillows, gloriously naked, her hands tracing patterns against the curve of his biceps over his pajamas.

It would be difficult to pinpoint the exact moment when he ceased thinking of Jean as some sort of disciplinarian harpy and began to see her as a woman, when he stopped trying to avoid her and instead began to watch her every moment, when his dreams of leaving this place morphed into dreams of holding her close. It had happened so gradually that though he could identify the milestones in their relationship, the times when he had reached for her and felt his love for her growing as a living thing inside his chest, he could not say precisely when it had started. Thoughts of her, the beauty of her, the warmth of her touch, the gentle comfort of her voice, had plagued him for so long now that it was difficult to identify a time when he had been without them. And yet, for all that he had imagined this, for all the times he had taken himself in hand with visions of her dancing behind his eyelids, ashamed and aroused in almost equal measure, never, not once, had his imaginings of her come anywhere close to the reality. The neat swell of her breasts, soft and small and warm, the dusky pink of her nipples, the jut of her hipbones, the smattering of freckles across her chest; every part of her was perfect, to his mind, and though he very much wanted to tell her so, he found his mouth too dry to speak.

Beneath him Jean shifted, her adoring smile fading somewhat in the face of his shocked silence. Her hands trailed from his arms across to his chest, her palms flat against his breastbone, her thighs tensing as if she were preparing herself to push him away, to flee from his judgment of her, and he knew that he ought to speak, ought to tell her how beautiful she was, how utterly she owned him, but he could only stare down at her in wonder. In the absence of the words that usually dripped from his lips easy as water flowing down a mountain he knew that he would have to act, and so he moved at once, allowed his hands to slide once more from her hips up to her breasts, until he could cradle her in his palms, knead her gently, feel the response of her body to that tender touch and revel in it.

She arched into his touch, and her fingertips curled into the fabric of his shirt, drawing him closer now, not pushing him away, and with a sigh of relief he lowered himself to her, traced the curve of her breast with the tip of his tongue, delighting in the taste of her skin.

"Lucien," she sighed, and he grinned, sinking his teeth into the soft tissue just above her heart, determined to mark her there, as indelibly as she had marked his own heart. He felt the rush of her blood beneath his lips and a wild exultation washed over him, as with his fingertips he traced circles round and round her nipple until she was whimpering, softly, pressing herself closer to him, silently asking him for more. That she should be so responsive, so willing to give herself to him, was almost unthinkable; what had he done, that a woman as remarkable as Jean, brave and strong and good and kind, should so freely join herself to him? Lucien was certain he did not deserve her, but now that she was here, he would do whatever it took not to disappoint her.

"Jean," he growled against her skin. "My Jean."

"Yours," she answered on a breathy sigh, reaching between them to begin unfastening the buttons of his shirt. They wrangled together, tugging at his shirt, trading fiery kisses until at last his chest was bare and she pressed her palms once more against him, her thighs rising up on either side of his hips. Though she was small she was strong, and as she pressed into him he realized what it was she wanted, and allowed her to turn them over so that she was settling down atop him, her knees planted on the mattress either side of his hips, her tender heat pressed fast against his hardness, and a groan of longing escaped him at the sight of her as she rose over him, beautiful as a goddess, arching her back and running her fingers through her hair, her skin glowing in the lamplight. In that moment he was certain that he had never seen anything in his life so beautiful as Jean.

But then she was moving, and all conscious thought faded as she took her time with him, just as he had done with her. Her lips trailed over his neck, nipping at the vein that thrummed there with want of her, and though he could not stop himself bucking up against her at the sensation the little sound of approval that left her lips told him she did not mind in the least. Still she kissed him, lips trailing lower, and lower still while her hands learned the shape of him, feathered over his chest, his stomach, his sides, and back up again. It had been quite some time since Lucien Blake had last taken a woman to bed, and longer still since he had found himself in the embrace of a woman who seemed as enamored with him as he was with her, and Jean's tender dedication to him left him stunned and wanting. His hands smoothed over the curve of her back, feeling the fineness of the bones beneath her skin, until at last he reached the curve of her bum, still covered by her satin knickers. While still she kissed him he curled his hands around her, encouraged her to grind down against his hardness, almost painful now with want of her. There were still too many barriers between them and the exquisite pain of being so close to her and yet so far removed was almost more than he could stand.

It would seem that Jean was similarly affected for she rose up then, supported herself with palms flat against his chest while she rocked above him, gentle and soothing as a ship at sea, her head cast back upon her shoulders, highlighting the delicious curve of her neck, her breasts thrust forward for him to devour with his hungry gaze while his hands remained clenched tight to her bum, guiding her movements as she gave herself over to this simple pleasure, the friction and the push and the pull between them sending her spiraling closer and closer to oblivion. A crimson flush spread across her chest, burning up her neck, touching her cheeks, and she gasped, softly. Beneath his hands he could feel her trembling, and suddenly nothing else in the world seemed to matter but that she find her release here, that she know pleasure before he'd even sunk himself inside her, that he discover in this moment just how far he could take her.

"That's it, my darling," he encouraged her softly, and she whimpered in response, her hips moving faster, and faster still, and all he could think was how stunning it was, to know now how she looked when she sought her pleasure, when she gave herself over utterly to sensation alone, when she stopped worrying about gossip and consequences and allowed herself simply to be, and he was awed to know that he was allowed to share in this joy with her, that she was his, just as he was hers, forever.

And then at last it all became too much, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth to stop herself from crying out as she trembled above him, her movements stuttering to a halt, frozen for an instant before she collapsed against his chest, whimpering and shivering her delight. Though a part of him wished she had felt free enough to shout her pleasure he understood that Charlie and Rose were just upstairs, that it would not do to make too much noise, to draw attention to the fact that Jean had made her way to his bed, and he reminded himself that soon enough he would be free to love her whenever the urge struck them, that soon enough they would be wed and the rings upon their fingers would give them license to make as much noise as they chose. He could make do with quiet whispers and muffled moans for now, knowing that they had the rest of their lives to see what sort of sounds they could coax from one another.

As she slowly calmed he dropped a gentle kiss against the top of her head, ran his hands once more over the soft skin of her back, enchanted by the smoothness of it, by the reality of her warm and blissful beneath his fingertips. It was more than he had ever dreamed possible, before this night, and they had only just begun. After a time Jean came back to herself, raised herself up on her elbows to smile down at him, beautiful in her abandon. Her hair was a riot of messy curls, damp with sweat at her temples, her eyes shining at him, more brilliantly than any star, her lips full and warm and swollen from his kisses.

"That was...unexpected," she told him, blushing furiously but not looking away, not shying back from him now.

"We're just getting started," he answered, laughing at the shocked look upon her face. He drew her to him for a kiss, hard and bruising and delicious in its intensity, and when he had her well and truly distracted he turned them, rolled her over until she was lying on her belly. Jean folded her arms beneath her head and turned to look at him over her shoulder, watching him from beneath the thick fan of her eyelashes, her eyes dark and wanting and lovely.

Lucien leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the base of her neck before running his hands once more over her back, pausing when he reached the line of her knickers. Once more his hands cradled her bum, kneaded her softly, but this time he was bolder, allowed his fingers to wander down between her thighs, pressing against the line of her folds through her damp knickers. That wetness taunted him, and the sigh that escaped her, the way her eyelids fluttered closed, was enough to have him peeling her knickers away in a moment. As he tossed them over the edge of the bed Jean shifted, her hips rising up just a little, enough to give him a clear view of dark curls and tender flesh, and he was on her in a moment.

Carefully Lucien shuffled down the bed, caught her thighs in his hands and leaned into her, breathing in the scent of her arousal, hesitating for just a moment, waiting for her admonishment or her enticement. She only canted her hips towards him, her breathing ragged and loud as thunder in the silence between them, and Lucien responded to her unspoken request at once, lowering himself until he could trace her folds with his tongue, could drink her in at last. At the first brush of his tongue she tensed, but he carried on, gently, until she was relaxing against him, pushing back against his mouth as she buried her face in his pillows to stifle the sound of her longing. His hands held fast to her thighs even as he continued his exploration of her, delving inside her just enough to have her shivering, working his lips over her again and again until his name was a constant chant from her lips. At last he took mercy upon her, gathered the little bundle of nerves at her center between his lips and laved her with his tongue, suckled her gently until she was whimpering, and then gasping, and then crying out into the pillow, bucking against his face, her sex fluttering in desperation. He eased a single finger inside her, thrust against her, curled just so and continued on until at last she broke, the sight and the sound and the taste of her nearly enough to have him coming undone himself. Still he kissed her, his tongue caressing her until she reached back blindly to tangle her fingers in his hair, tugging gently. Lucien chuckled against her overheated flesh but followed her unspoken command, sliding up the bed to lie beside her, gathering her into his arms.

At once she nestled into his embrace, cast one leg over his hip and brought him to her, pressed her lips to the line of his neck.

"And was that unexpected, my darling?" he asked her, grinning. Jean grumbled something unintelligible and reached around to swat at his bottom as punishment for his cheek.

"Insufferable man," she muttered.

"You bring out the best in me, love," he answered.

Jean cast her head back so that she could face him, cheeks pink, chest heaving, and all sense of jocularity left him, replaced at once by an overwhelming sort of serenity. She was beautiful, and she was real, and she was here, and he wanted her so fiercely it was a wonder he had not already made a mess of his sleeping pants. Perhaps she felt it too for she did not chide him, only reached out to trace the lines of his face with gentle fingertips.

"I do love you, Lucien," she told him softly. "You know that, don't you?"

She had only uttered those words to him once before, when he had knelt before her to offer her the ring the second time, when he had turned all his hopes and dreams over to her, waiting for her to crush him or revive him as she chose. In that moment she had caught his chin in her hand, had stared into his eyes, and murmured softly _yes,_ and he had slipped the ring onto her finger and rose to his feet to kiss her soundly, and as he wrapped her in his arms she had whispered _I love you, Lucien Blake_ against his lips. Since that day, however, she had not given him such a gift again, and though he had never once doubted the depth of her regard for him to hear her state it so plainly filled his heart full to bursting with love for her.

"I know, Jeannie," he told her, fingers encircling her wrist, drawing her to him so he could place a kiss against her palm. "I know."

She sighed and leaned into his touch, but she was not idle. With her free hand she reached between them, fingers curling around the waistband of his pants, tugging gently. Lucien took the hint and grinned at her once, feeling reckless and wild in a way he had not done since his youth. They rolled together, Jean settling herself beneath him while he struggled to remove his pants, that last layer that separated them one from the other. And then he was bare, and her hands were on his hips, trailing across his skin, feathering over his belly and around to the small of his back.

"You are so beautiful, Jean," he told her as his own hands wandered, curled around her thighs, kneaded her gently. Her smile was bright and brilliant, so pleased he had to wonder when last anyone had told her just how lovely she was, and he resolved himself in that instant to repeat it to her a hundred times a day, until she believed it as much as did he. Her toes stroked against the backs of his calves and her hands danced over the plane of his back, pausing as her eyes darkened and the progress of her fingertips stuttered to a halt against the ridges of his scars.

"Lucien," she whispered, and the pain in her eyes lanced through him sharp as a knife.

"It was a long time ago," he said, trying and failing to reassure her. Jean had always been a stubborn sort, and she would not be deterred now. She rose up beneath him, urging him to move, and though he desperately did not want to he knew he owed her this much, owed her the truth of his body, of his past, just as she had given the same to him. He allowed her to guide him onto his stomach, fisted his hands in the sheets and tried to keep his breathing even as she knelt over him, the scratch of her sparse curls and the hint of her heat against the bare skin of his bum causing him to press himself hard against the mattress. He had never, not once, allowed a woman to gaze so unrestricted upon the wasteland of his back, to face head on the lingering remnants of the horror he had endured a lifetime ago. By the time he was released from the camp he was beyond the aid of any nurse, and what few lovers he had enjoyed in the interim had been more than willing to avoid his scars, but he should have known that Jean would not be satisfied with anything less than a thorough examination.

"Oh, my love," she breathed softly as she stared down at him, and though he had to grit his teeth against the desire to turn away he latched onto those words falling so easily from her lips, to the knowledge that what she saw did not in any way lessen her regard for him. The first touch of her fingertips against him burned hot as fire, and though he shivered, he remained right where he was, let her do what she would. To her credit Jean did not ask him what had happened, and Lucien was grateful for it; he was not sure that his desire would survive such a conversation. She only followed the corded lines of his scars from his shoulders to the rise of his bum and back up again, and when she had touched her fill she leaned forward and pressed her lips tenderly to the indentation of a bullet wound on the back of his shoulder.

"You are mine, Lucien Blake," she breathed against his skin. "And I will keep you safe."

He could no longer stand to lie there without seeing her face and so he turned beneath her, catching her hips in his hands to steady her as she tried to regain her balance above him. As soon as she was settled she reached out to cradle his face in her hands, leaning over him to place a gentle kiss against his lips.

"I love you," he whispered, and she smiled, and he felt that smile brush against his skin, felt it warm him through and through. Though he had entertained the notion of rolling her beneath him and sinking himself inside her at last he found in that moment that he did not want to move, that he wanted her just like this, beautiful and glorious and perfect above him, the line of every muscle, the golden glow of her skin on perfect display for him, and it seemed that Jean was in agreement for as she kissed him again she reached between them and wrapped one gentle hand around his hardness. A groan borne of desperation left him, and she raised herself up onto her knees, grinning at him wickedly as she continued to stroke him.

Everything about this moment was brilliant, perfect, glorious, almost unbearable in its beauty. The swell of her breasts, the pebbled peaks of her nipples, the way his hips bucked in time to her ministrations as if of their own accord, the hint of her heat so close to him he could have wept for want of her; he closed his eyes for a moment, committing every piece of this image to memory.

"Lucien?" she asked him breathlessly.

" _God,_ yes," he answered her, and she was moving in a moment, rising above him, hesitating just for an instant as she positioned herself above him. He wrapped his hands around the curve of her hips, fingers holding onto her flesh for dear life, willing himself not to move, to let her set the pace for this, their first time together. He wanted to give her everything, every piece of himself, the entire world if she asked it of him, but more than that he wanted her to be happy, delirious with him, and so he held himself back, waited for her to take what it was she wanted.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she lowered herself down onto him, and at the first taste of her heat swirling around him his head slammed back against the pillows, his fingers curling into her flesh hard enough to bruise. She gasped, tensing and then relaxing against him, slowly working him deeper and deeper inside her, and the steady stream of whimpers and sighs that left her lips had him aching with want of her. Around him she was hot and wet and soft and perfect, and he could feel her stretching to accommodate his not inconsiderable length, could feel her trembling above him, just as overwhelmed as he.

"Bloody hell, Jean," he groaned, and in response she only whimpered, rocking against him, her hands dropping to his chest to hold her in place as they slowly began to move together. It was paradise, it was bliss, it was heaven on earth, the way she held him, the way he filled her, the way they consumed one another. With every downward thrust of her hips he watched her breasts swaying softly, tantalizingly, felt the rush of wetness between them where they were joined, the sounds of their union and their gentle gasps floating on the air all around them. An urgent sort of need overcame him and he used the hands still holding her hips to guide her, to encourage her movements, his own body rising up to meet her on every downward thrust, pressing into her harder, and faster, until her legs began to shake and he took over for her. Lucien held her tight against him and let his own need take him over, plunging into her again and again until she quite suddenly lowered herself against him, the change in angle between them drawing a strangled moan from each of them. Jean's lips fastened hard to the line of his neck to muffle the sounds of her crying out for him, and he wrapped one arm around her back, holding her tight to him as he plunged into her again and again. The drag of his cock against the soft walls of her sex, the friction that built between them as she ground down messily against him, the brush of her hardened nipples against the coarse hair of his chest, the delirious pain of her lips and teeth pressed hard to his neck was almost more than he could bear. Furiously he moved, chasing after his pleasure, desperate to bring her with him.

It happened in an instant; everything was building, swirling, towering need, and then she released his neck to groan out the words _yes, Lucien, yes, please, oh please,_ and the sound of her begging for him had him redoubling his efforts in a moment until her fluttering sex clenched him so tightly his eyes began to water, and her lips fastened to the curve of his shoulder to muffle her scream as she shattered in his arms. Her release was his undoing; he caught her bum in his hands and drew her down hard against him, driving into her like a man possessed until at last he reached his own completion, spilling into her while she shivered and whimpered in his arms.

* * *

In the aftermath of their ferocious release Jean found she could not move a single muscle. She lay draped across his chest, gasping like a fish, feeling him still inside her, pressing down hard in a bid to keep him close. It was reckless, she knew, irresponsible given that they were not wed and she was young enough, still, to find herself in trouble after such an act, but she could not bring herself to regret it. Jean loved this man with all her heart, and everything that had passed between them on this night had only served to endear him more to her. He was everything to her, her dearest love, her fondest dream, and she was so very glad that she had found the courage to come to him this night that if she could have spared the breath for it she would have wept.

Instead she only held him, felt the comforting rise and fall of his chest beneath her as he breathed, trying to wrap her mind around all the beautiful things that they had shared. It was not only the physical release that had brought her joy - though she could say with some certainty that she was now well and truly addicted to his hands, and his lips, to every piece of him - but the way that their hearts had come together. She had shared her body with him, though she had been afraid, and he in turn had allowed her this glimpse into his past, into his soul. What had passed between them was so much more than mere release, and she felt herself bound to him now in a way she could never have imagined, before.

"I'm so glad you're here, my darling," Lucien told her softly, trailing his hands up and down the length of her back.

Jean hummed and pressed her lips to the line of his neck, too content to speak. There were so many questions, still, about where they would go from here, how they would handle the challenges that still faced them, but Jean could not bring herself to worry while his arms were wrapped around her.

"You'll stay, won't you?" he asked her, and the vulnerability in his voice had her rising up in an instant, reaching down to brush the sweaty curls back from his face. Perhaps the right thing to do would be to leave him, to go and clean herself up and fall asleep in her own bed, but Jean could not bear to do that, not now, not after everything. In the morning they could decide how to face this, how best to avoid arousing suspicion, could decide when next they could take such a risk, but for now just knowing that Lucien wanted her here, that he wanted to hold her, to fall asleep beside her, filled her heart with joy.

"Always," she answered him, and he smiled, and her heart swelled at the sight of it.


End file.
